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When suddenly I heard the shrill cries of a child. 

Page 6. 




Orphan Anne 


BY 

MARY A . DENISON, 

AUTHOR OF “A NOBLE SISTER,” “LED TO THE LIGHT,” ‘ MILL AGENT, 
“OPPOSITE THE JAIL,” ETC., ETC. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

ALFRED MARTIEN, 

1214 CHESTNUT STREET. 

1871. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by 
JAMES S. CLAXTON, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Eastern Dis- 
trict of Pennsylvania. 


Stereotyped and Printed by Alfred Mariien. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER I. 

Finding an Orphan 5 

CHAPTER II. 

Two Poodles 17 

CHAPTER III. 

Brought Home 23 

CHAPTER IV. 

Shall she have Dotty’s Clothes? 29 

CHAPTER V. 

A Pretty Child 33 

CHAPTER VI. 

Our Saviour’s Words 50 

CHAPTER VII. 

Anne and the Thimble 57 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Gone Mad 65 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A Father’s Letter 77 

CHAPTER X. 

The Story of Little Dotty 87 

CHAPTER XI. 

\ 

Dotty in the Country 96 

CHAPTER XII. 

Dotty an Angel 108 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Uncle Ralph’s Visit 116 

CHAPTER XIV. 

“The Little Child.” 123 

CHAPTER XV. 

Good News 138 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


CHAPTER I. 

Finding an Orphan* 

B USINESS called me one day 
through a succession of the nar- 
rowest and worst streets of the 
city. The houses were generally relics 
of bygone greatness. If houses could 
be subject to certain maladies, as human 
beings are, then I should say that 
some seemed rheumatic, some feverish, 
some consumptive; and each had a 
ghastly air, as if it was sure that with 
1 * 5 


6 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


all its aches and pains and stiffness and 
age, decay was not very far off. 

I was thinking these queer thoughts, 
and wondering if the many stains 
might not be considered the marks 
of the sorrowful tears which these 
wretched tenements had shed, when 
suddenly I heard the shrill cries of a 
child, “ 0 ! -don’t beat me, don’t beat 
me and at the same time a succession 
of heavy blows sounded- on tender 
human flesh. 

I stopped ; I never can bear to hear 
a child cry, and this little voice was 
very piteous. 

“It’s Marm Hague beating Annie,” 
said a coarse woman who had just 


FINDING AN ORPHAN. 


7 


come out of a shop, and stood listen- 
ing like myself. “ She’s in one of her 
drunken fits, likely. I never did see 
how she do abuse that poor child.” 

“ Who is Marm Hague ?” I asked, 
my blood curdling at the sound. 

“ She’s an old creature as isn’t liked 
much by her neighbors, sir,” replied the 
woman, lifting her basket. “It’s too 
bad of her, sir, but the little one’s not 
got father or mother, and that old hag 
does just as she pleases.” 

By this time the cries had grown 
fainter, as if the child had been tor- 
tured till her exhaustion prevented any 
resistance, even the feeblest. I could 
bear the horror of suspense no longer, 


8 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


but throwing open an old ricketty door 
I encountered the blackness, the rotten- 
ness, and the dirt, and groped my 
w r ay up to what I supposed was the 
room tenanted by the heartless woman. 

My knock at the door was evidently 
an unwelcome one, for there was con- 
siderable stir within, and when at last 
the door was thrown open, the smell of 
bad whisky made me quite faint. How 
can I picture the woman who stood 
before me or the interior of that foul 
room ? Surely one of Macbeth's 
witches could not have been more 
wrinkled, filthy, or repulsive in every 
respect than this tyrant over helpless 
childhood. 


FINDING AN ORPHAN. 


9 


A bottle of whisky had evidently 
been overturned, the vile liquor spilt, 
the glass bottle broken. There was 
not a whole piece of furniture in the 
room ; the floor was strewn with all 
manner of dirt. Grease and rags 
abounded. Brown paper bulged from 
broken panes where glass had not been 
for an age. I stood there, shocked and 
half paralyzed. I had not seen the 
child yet, but I heard her low, moaning 
sobs. 

“Well, what ye want,” cried the 
virago, savagely. I unbuttoned my 
overcoat, under that I had on a military 
coat with brass buttons, for I was then 
in the service of the United States. 


10 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


The woman recoiled; a deadly terror 
paled her grim features ; she evidently 
took me for a policeman. 

“ You were beating a child cruelly/’ 
I said in my sternest voice. “ I have 
come to see what the matter is. Where 
is she ?” 

“ Whist, Anne/’ cried the treach- 
erous voice, trembling with fear, 
“ whist I tell ye. Sure she is a careless 
and a bad girl intirely, that she is, 
always oversetting things. ’Twas the 
whisky she spilt, as took my last 
fourpence to buy, and there it is, sir, on 
the floor, intirely wasted.” 

“ As it ought to be,” I said ; “ Anne 
come here.” 


FINDING AN ORPHAN. 


11 


My summons not being immedi- 
ately responded to, the amiable Madam 
Hague took the child by the arm and 
dragged her forward. 

“ Stop, no violence,” I said, seeing the 
uplifted hand. “Don’t be frightened, 
Anne, I shan’t let you be hurt,” for 
indeed the child won upon my sympa- 
thies at the first sight. Not that she 
was remarkably beautiful, for she was 
nothing of the kind, only a little, 
slender, large eyed child, dirty and 
ragged and cowed, yet bearing upon 
her poor little brow, on which were 
plastered the tangled curls, the marks 
of that infantile innocence that Christ 
sanctified, by his words and deeds, 


12 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


towards children, saying that “their 
angels do always behold the face of 
my Father which is in heaven.” 

“ Whose child is this ?” I asked. 

“ Mine,” was the reply. 

“ Is this woman your mother, little 
one ?” I asked. The child did not dare 
reply. “ You tell an untruth, woman,” 
I added ; “ this poor child has neither 
father or mother, and you dare presume 
upon her helplessness, and treat her 
like a brute. I shall take her away 
with me.” The woman began wringing 
her hands, but she evidently stood in 
fear of the law, considering me one of 
its representatives, and dared not re- 
sist. I took the poor, miserable, 


FINDING AN ORPHAN. 


13 


frightened thing by one of its dirty 
hands, and led it trembling from head 
to foot, as only a fearful child can 
tremble. How I pitied the miserable, 
neglected infant, for she could have 
been scarcely six years old, at an age 
when the tenderest care is needed. 
At the threshold of the door I paused ; 
I had incurred a responsibility thought- 
lessly; what was I to do with the 
poor little thing, now I had her? I 
looked at her and revolted at the 
thought of going through the public 
streets with such a little batch of dirt 
and rags. I had a fasiidious young 
wife at home, and a sister who did not 
scruple to laugh at my oddities ; I was 


2 


14 


ORPHAN A^NE. 


foolishly sensitive, and had been the 
hero of a number of Quixotic schemes 
not always resulting to my satisfaction, 
or that of anybody else. In a moment 
my mind was made up, I called a 
carriage, deposited my burden, in spite 
of the black looks of the genteel coach- 
man, and entering, drove home. The 
child sat on the back seat, and I had a 
good opportunity to study her. She 
had ceased to sob, and only now and 
then drew a deep, unchildish breath. 
She seemed utterly bewildered at the 
situation, never before in all proba- 
bility having seen the interior of a car- 
riage. Her eyes were dark and very 
expressive ; what the color of her com- 


FINDING AN ORPHAN. 


15 


plexion was, the dirt did not lertve me 
at liberty to judge, but I noticed that 
though diminutive through neglect and 
starvation, her figure was good and 
her face on the whole remarkably 
intelligent. Her hands were small, the 
smallest I ever saw on a child of her 
age, and her dirty little feet were well 
formed. She held on to the seat with 
a sort of misgiving as if she feared it 
would slide away from her, and all 
her poor little gilded dream would fade, 
and leave her in the old, miserable 
place. Meanwhile I occupied myself 
in wondering what my wife would say, 
and what excuse I should frame for 
introducing such an uncouth visitor. 


16 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


What she did say, and what I said 
and done, the reader will be informed 
in the next chapter, when I shall drop 
my own ideality, and in the form of 
a narrative, describe the new surround- 
ings, and how they acted upon the 
poor little orphan Annie. 


IWO POODLES. 


17 


CHAPTER H. 

Two Jfxiodliss* 

A PLEASANT parlor in a small 
neat and perfectly furnished 
■ house. Not a mote of dust to 
be seen anywhere, not even in the long 
wavy lines of gold that the sun sent 
in, unless one looked very steadily, 
and then they seem transmitted into 
flecks of gold dust. Two ladies sat 
sewing, one near the newly kindled fire, 
for it was the last of September, the 
other at the window watching some- 
2 * 


18 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


times the shifting panorama of a city 
street. 

“ See that poor little child, Mary/* 
said Nellie, the youngest of the two ; 
“ how it makes my he^rt ache to 
witness such sights !” Mary arose and 
w r ent to the window. Two children 
stood there, both young, indeed they 
might have been taken for two misera- 
ble little twins, and one of them held 
an old ■ crust to the lips of the other, 
who was evidently half famished. 
Their eyes were sore and bleared, their 
clothes ragged and disgustingly filthy. 
Mary opened the door, called the 
servant and sent them each out a 
slice of well buttered, sweet bread. 


TWO POODLES. 


19 


Nellie laughed as they devoured it. 
“ The hungry little heathens,” she ex- 
claimed, but the warm tears filled her 
eyes, and she felt a choking in her 
throat, and the words came up spon- 
taneously in her head, “ What hath 
made us to differ ?” 

“ I wonder if Providence didn’t in- 
tend that I should be matron in a 
foundling hospital or something of the 
sort. I have such a queer feeling when 
I see those distressed children. I dare 
not think my own thoughts, either, 
for if I did I’m afraid I should question 
the mercy of Him who allows such for- 
lorn little creatures to suffer.” 

“ We should grow as hard as nether 


20 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


mill stones;” said Mary, if we never 
saw such sights to quicken our sym- 
pathies; there must be contrasts, it 
seems to be a law of nature. The 
question is, what shall we do for 
them ?” 

“ Perhaps we should not be allowed 
to do for them at all;” responded 
Nellie, resuming her sewing. “ They 
are probably invaluable to some poor 
besotten parent, who trade on their 
rags and wretchedness, and who if they 
are not supplied with money of their 
begging, beat them miserably. If we 
clothed them, the horrid creatures 
would pawn their clothes, if we fed 
them they would be less inclined to 


TWO POODLES. 


21 


work for themselves, and so bring on 
added suffering.” 

“ I have thought,” said Mary, gazing 
into the soft flame of the fire, “that if 
in every household where there were 
no children, one of these poor mis- 
erable creatures could be adopted, how 
many would be saved from want and 
degredation, and yet I should never 
have the courage to go and find such 
a one, and perhaps the patience to keep 
it and attend to its wants, if I did. 
It requires more self-denial, I suppose, 
to bring up the child of another, than 
your own ; at least I should think so.” 

Nellie laughed. 

“ That’s what I always think,” she 


22 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


said, “when I go over to Mrs Long- 
man’s. There she sits, in one of 
her beautiful easy chairs, exquisitely 
dressed, with one horrid little white 
poodle with inflamed eyes on her knee, 
and another on a stool beside her ; two 
fat, pampered, vicious specimens of 
dog-hood ; and she will dwell for 
hours on what she considers their fine 
points, their symptoms and their canine 
follies generally. I say to myself, oh 
my dear Mrs. Longman, if you would 
put on a pretty, plain dress, and pet 
some poor little one who has never 
known such caresses as you give Fanny 
and Petit, how much more womanly 
you would look !” 


BROUGHT HOME. 


23 


CHAPTER III. 

Brought 

ERHAPS she is not fit to bring 
up children,” said Mary. 

“ She is fit at least to treat 
them as well as she does her dogs, and 
I think her instincts, if nothing deeper, 
would in time teach her that they 
had souls. But, dear Mary, here comes 
a carriage ; it has stopped at our door ; 
Leonard is in it — and — oh ! what has 
he brought?” 

Mary ran to the window, from 
thence to the door. At first she 



24 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


thought that perhaps her husband’s 
wound troubled him, and it made her 
turn pale ; but when he came in, lead- 
ing the miserable little creature he had 
so shortly before rescued from a brutal 
caskimstress, she stopped short in sheer 
amazement and looked at him with 
wide, open, inquisitive eyes. 

“ I couldn’t find you a lap-dog,” was 
his first laughing exclamation, curi- 
ously enough, “ so I got you the next 
best thing ; what do you think of it ?” 

“ Why, Leonard, what do you mean ? 
I think it’s horrible,” she said, not 
knowing whether to laugh or to cry. 

“ Well, I shall hand it over to your 
tender mercies,” he said, “and if it 


BROUGHT HOME. 


25 


can’t find a home here, it must he car- 
ried somewhere else, I suppose. Go to 
the fire, little girl, and get warm.” 

“ Where did you find her?” asked 
Nellie, while the child never stirred. 

“ In one of those old streets in the 
north end, where, if I had not rescued 
her, she might have been beaten to 
death.” Mary shuddered. 

“ By her mother ?” 

“No, poor child, she has neither 
father nor mother.” 

“ The poor little thing !” said Nellie, 
who was laying aside her sewing. 
Then she went up to the child and 
looked it over much as if it had been 
a wild animal. 

3 


26 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


“ So your mother is dead, little one ?” 
she asked. The child nodded and hung 
down her head. 

“But what are we going to do, 
Leonard, we have no clothes, only 
those that belonged to Dotty,” she 
said, a sudden trouble coming in her 
eyes. Dotty was a little sister of 
whom Mary had had the charge for 
several years, and who had been ac- 
cidently drowned. Ever since the sad 
event, Mrs. Dinsmore, the wife of 
Lieutenant Leonard Dinsmore, had 
jealously guarded the little wardrobe. 
Sometimes she would show it to visi- 
tors, the beautiful embroidered dresses 
of all soft fabrics, the little shoes 


BROUGHT HOME. 


27 


and stockings that the five year old 
child had worn. 

“Only those of little Dotty,” she 
repeated, thoughtfully. “I can't put 
them on her.” 

“ Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of 
these,” repeated her husband, smiling, 
then added, “ whoso receiveth one such 
little child in my name, receiveth Me.* 
Mary’s eyes filled with tears. 

“ 0, Leonard, could I ! oh, Leonard, 
can you ask me ?” she cried, with quick 
quivering lips. 

“ No, dear,” was his answer, “ I don’t 
ask you to make any sacrifice ; I don’t 
even wish you to keep the poor little 
motherless waif, only, I was afraid she 


28 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


would be beaten to death, and I didn’t 
know where else to take her. I sup- 
pose there are places enough, Orphan 
Asylums, and the like.’ , 

“ Poor little thing,” whispered Mary, 
taking a long look at the wistful eyes ; 
“she might be even pretty, I expect, 
if she tv ere only reasonably clean.” 


dotty’s clothes. 


29 


CHAPTER IV. 

Shall she h&ee Hotty's ^lothjes? 

9 t KNEW she would be,” replied 
Nellie promptly, “ and if you are 
^ willing, I’ll soon make her pre- 
sentable.” 

“ We ought at least to do that,” 
said Mary, thoughtfully. “You might 
put on that plain crimson merino, and 
the little white apron with straps.” 

“ And shoes and stockings ?” 

“ Not the pair she wore,” said Mary, 
with a sudden pang, “ one of the new 
ones.” 


3 * 


so 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


Nelly was all activity now. Her 
plain sweet face glowed with the 
gentle benignity of her heart. She 
was a lovely girl in character, with 
many generous impulses, and small 
sympathies, remaining inert in this 
limited household, where there were 
no little tireless feet and ever running 
tongues to call for constant exertion, 
either for mind or body. The child 
glanced up at her, with a lowering side 
glance, diminishing the little pretti- 
ness that she might be supposed to 
possess, when Nellie held out her hand 
for her to go and be washed, but pre- 
sently she put the little black fist in 
the girl’s kind clasping fingers, and 


dotty’s clothes. 


31 


marched off, apparently quite sure that 
she had found friends. 

“Do you want me to keep her, 
Leonard ?” asked Mary, as her husband 
stooped to kiss her 

“I want you to do just exactly as 
your heart dictates, dear,” he replied. 
“ I dare say if you think she will be a 
trouble to you, we can put her where 
she will be attended to. Of course I 
cannot ask you to take so much care 
and trial on yourself, unless you could 
make it a positive pleasure to take 
care of this, Christ’s poor neglected 
little one.” 

Mary’s own words came back to her. 
She was not especially fond of children, 


OO 


OKPHAN ANNE. 


but after Leonard had gone out, she 
found herself thinking of little Dotty, 
the darling sister she had lost. 

“ But she was so beautiful !” she 
murmured, “ so winning and delicate in 
all her ways, and this poor repulsive 
little thing, the child perhaps of low 
parents, the inheritor of evil passions 
and ill health.” Ah ! but the sweet 
words of the Saviour seemed to blaze 
before her, 

“ Whoso receiveth one of these little 
ones in My name, receiveth Me. 

“ Receiveth Me,” she murmured. 
“ Receiveth the Lord Christ, king of 
heaven and earth, Lord of all lords, 
why the thought is almost overwhelm- 


dotty’s clothes. 


33 


ing, as I look at it in the light of the 
presence of this poor neglected one. 
The words never had such a meaning 
before — never. They make me feel 
what I am, and what powers I possess 
as an immortal being. Who knows for 
what God has raised up this child ? 
Why should Leonard among all the 
thousands of wretched children have 
brought this one to rescue from degre- 
dation and vice? Lord help me to 
understand. Lord help me to put self 
aside, help me to know the value of a 
soul, one soul, snatched from the fire.” 

A sweet and solemn serenity took 
possession of the woman now. Who 
could tell what angel unawares had 


34 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


brought blessings to that happy heme? 
She had almost made up her mind to 
accept the care of the little one, when 
the door opened, and in came Mrs. 
Longman, dressed in a dainty blue silk, 
her ribbons and laces fresh, while 
pulling at one end of a thin white silk 
cord, stood a minute epitome of a 
white dog with pink eyes and a silver 
collar on his neck. 

“ I wouldn’t let them announce me,” 
said the fashionable woman. “Come, 
pet, come; one would think she was 
obstinate, but she only feels a little 
strange. I knew you were all alone, at 
least only with your sister. Now isn’t 
Fanny a willful little thing; I really 


dotty’s clothes. 


35 


believe she is willful sometimes/’ and 
stooping down she gathered the yelping 
creature in her arms, and holding her 
under her soft white cheek, took the 
chair that Mary offered. 

“ The naughty little thing,” she cried 
in playful tones, and with her finger 
uplifted, do you know she has kept me 
from the fresh air, Mrs. Dinsmore, for 
three whole days — -yes, positively.” 

“ Why, pray ?” asked Mary. 

“ She has been sick, the little deli- 
cate creature,” replied the dog’s mis- 
tress, tenderly petting its silken paws ; 
“ this breed is so rare, very sensitive to 
our climate. I gave fifty dollars for her; 
you’d hardly believe it, would you ?” 


36 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


“I should call it expensive/’ said 
Mary, smiling. 

“ 0, very, and she feeds like a little 
princess; you’d laugh, I expect, if I 
told you what her bills are. She has 
her milk first like any little child, and 
Petit is just as had. But then they 
are such a comfort, you cannot think 
how much company the little creatures 
are, only I must say that F anny, when 
sick, is very cross, but then so would a 
child be. I wonder you don’t have one, 
Mrs. Dinsmore, it would be such com- 
pany for you. You needn’t be so par- 
ticular as I was, you know, they come 
much cheaper.” 

“I never had a Fancy for dogs, as 


dotty’s clothes. 


3T 


pets/’ said Mary, looking half aside at 
the ugly little specimen that sat 
blinking in the lap of its mistress. 

“ Ah ! that’s because you have never 
tried them, and don’t know what affec- 
tionate little things they are, and how 
pleasant it is to have them greet you 
when you come home, but then to be 
sure I seldom leave Fanny at home. It 
is rather distingue now-a-days to have 
a fine lap-dog, and it gives one some- 
thing to do on the street, although to 
be sure they are sometimes in the way.” 


3 


38 


ORPHAN ANNE. 



CHAPTER Y. 
ptetty Child* 

A T that moment there was the 
sound of little feet on the 
stairs and on the hall-carpet. 
Nellie, unconscious that there was a 
visitor, opened the door and paraded 
little Anne on the threshold. Soap 
and water had done the tiny waif a 
world of good, her hair was decently 
curled, her bright dress set off her 
rather colorless complexion ; the little 
apron, white as snow, set off the bright 


A PRETTY CHILD. 


39 


dress, and the thin ankles were encased 
in stockings of the finest and whitest 
texture. Altogether little Anne did 
credit to her new friends, though she 
had not yet lost the shy frightened 
look that had become habitual to her. 

“ Why, what nice little girl have 
you got here ?” inquired Mrs. Longman, 
her attention diverted from the pink- 
eyed pet for a moment. “ Is it some 
neighbors child ?” Mary blushed. 

“ It’s a poor little thing Leonard 
brought home,” said Nellie, leading the 
child, who looked with round eyed 
wonder on everything she saw, from 
the piano to the pretty sewing-machine 
to a lower seat than the rest. 


40 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


“ You don’t mean to say !” exclaimed 
the fashionable woman, aghast. 

“ That it’s a poor little waif, an or- 
phan without a home. Leonard heard 
it being dreadfully beaten, and immedi- 
ately took it away and brought it 
here.” 

“ From some low place, I suppose ?” 

“ Yes, it’s not to be denied that the 
place was low, and everything was low 
about her, but I think she pays for 
dressing ; don’t you, Mary ?” 

“ 0, but how do you know but she 
brought some horrible disease in her 
old clothes?” asked Mrs. Longman, 
shrinking away with her pet. 

“ We had of course to run the risk 


A PRETTY CHILD. 


41 


of that,” said Nellie, quietty, with a 
half smile, “ but I didn’t feel alarmed 
at all. It is very healthy in the city, 
now.” 

“And you put on little Dotty’s 
dresses ?” she asked, with an accent of 
intensified horror. 

“ They might better be clothing the 
back of the naked, than rotting up 
there in the dark,” returned Nellie, 
with a contemptuous look at the curled 
darling, that now began a succession of 
sharp petulant yelps. 

“ Well, every one to his fancy, I’m 
sure,” said Mrs. Longman, fondling her 
dog, and stopping him from complain- 
ing with sugar drops, “but I never 
3 * 


42 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


dreamed you would take such trouble 
on yourself, Mrs. Dinsmore !” 

“I don’t believe she will be any 
more trouble than your two dogs are, 
Mrs. Longman, and I am sure she will 
be more intelligent,” laughed Nellie. 

“ Every one to their fancy, as I said 
before,” responded Mrs. Longman, 
rising to go. “ I’m sure I wouldn’t be 
troubled with a child like that. Why 
see how she will hang on your hands ! 
She must be clothed and educated ; she 
will allow you no time to visit; you 
w r ill have noise when you long for 
quiet ; you will have to tax your in- 
genuity to the utmost to keep her 
pleased. I’d rather have my poodles.” 


A PRETTY CHILD. 


43 


“ You’re welcome to them/’ said 
Nellie, as Mrs. Longman disappeared, 
followed by Mary. “I think God is 
better pleased, though, to see the 
saving of an immortal soul. At any 
rate I don’t think it will ever be my 
vocation to train poodles.” 

“ What do you think of her,” asked 
Nellie, as Mary came back. 

“ Who ? of Mrs. Longman ?” 

“ No, indeed : I had forgotten the 
silly woman ; I mean the child. Come 
here, Anne.” The little girl lifted her- 
self mechanically and came towards 
the two women. Mary surveyed her 
with a critical glance. 

“ She is really prettier than I ever 


44 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


thought she would look,” she replied. 
“ She has dimples and curly hair, 
hasn’t she ?” 

“ Yes, and you forget her fine soul- 
ful eyes. She is much prettier than 
the majority of children, now confess.” 

“ Something about her makes me 
think of Dotty,” said Mary, her lips 
trembling. 

“ Yes, her helplessness, her delicacy ; 
do you suppose she can be very wicked ? 
I have heard such children are. That’s 
the only thing that would trouble me, 
the unlearning of bad deeds and habits. 
I wonder what she remembers !” 

“ Do you recollect your mother, 
Anne ?” 


A PRETTY CHILD. 


45 


The child nodded, adding eagerly, 
“they carried her off; carried her 
away in a big black thing, and she 
never came back.” 

“ Where did you live then ?” 

“It was — it was — I don’t know,” 
she replied, “Marm Hague took me 
afterwards, and beat me every day.” 

“ Did you like Marm Hague ?” 

“ No,” and a look of horror over- 
spread her face ; “ she beat me so.” 

“ Poor little thing ! Mary, there were 
great welts on her shoulders when I 
put her in the bath. How awful to 
treat a motherless child that way ! 
Where is your father, my dear ?” 

“ He’s — he’s dead.” 


46 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


“ Do you remember him ?” 

“Yes, a little, he — he got drunk,” 
added the child, “ and mammy cried.” 

“ Poor thing ! she has seen nothing 
but the dark side of human nature all 
her life. Did you ever go to school ?” 

“ What a question, Nellie ?” 

“ Foolish, I suppose,” returned Nellie, 
laughing; “she don’t seem even to 
know what I mean. Did mamma ever 
tell little Anne about God, and Jesus ?” 

“She told me, Lord teach a little 
child to pray,” said Anne triumphantly. 

“ There !” cried Nellie, “ now I feel 
better. The mother, at least, must 
have been a Christian woman. And 
can you say it now ? Try.” 


A PRETTY CHILD. 


47 


But Anne could get no further, than, 
“ Lord teach a little child to pray.” 

“ And when you went to sleep, did 
your mamma tell you to kneel down 
and pray to God ?” 

Anne nodded affirmatively. 

“And do you remember what you 
said ?” 

The child thought hard with a puz- 
zled face. 

“ Was it now I lay me ?” 

“Down to sleep,” nodded little 
Anne, “ that’s it.” 

“ 0, Mary, she must have had a good 
mother,” cried Nellie again. 

“ Would you like to stay here with 
us?” Mary began. 


48 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


“ Yes’m,” said the child. 

“ Nellie, I wonder if she wouldn’t 
like Dotty’s doll, I mean the one with 
the cracked nose; I don’t believe the 
child ever had one.” Then she went 
up stairs, and opened reverently a 
little drawer that smelt of rose leaves. 
It had been the toy depository of the 
little girl that was drowned, and it was 
filled with toys. Mary looked at it a 
moment with tears in her eyes, and 
then selected from among three or four 
dolls, one a little the worse for wear, 
but still quite attractive. This she 
carried down, and to the little girl’s 
intense delight, gave it to her. 

“ I see ’em in the windows,” she said, 


A PRETTY CHILD. 


49 


looking it over as if it was some rare 
treasure, “ but the man wouldn’t give 
Anne one unless she had some money.” 

“ Isn’t she cunning ?” inquired Nellie, 
with words and winks, as the child 
ensconced in Dotty’s little rocking 
chair, immediately fell into those 
small, motherly ways that mark a five 
year older when she first plays matron, 
“ I’m sure it don’t seem as if she would 
be a bit of trouble. If she has ugly 
ways wouldn’t she have shown them 
off before now.” 

“ Everything is new to her,” replied 
Mary. 


4 


50 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


CHAPTER VI. 


®ur Saviour's Words* 

W ELL, how is our small acces- 
sion ?” inquired Leonard, as 
he came home to dinner. 
“You havn’t got tired of her and 
packed her off, have you ?” he added, 
looking about the room. A pretty 
little apartment led out of the parlor, 
into this Mary beckoned her husband, 
and Nellie crept behind them on tiptoe. 
There on a lounge, habited in a simple 
white dressing gown, laid the child 
asleep. 


our saviour’s words. 


51 


“You don’t tell me,” cried Leonard 
expressing genuine surprise, “ that that 
is the child ! How clean and pretty 
she looks ! I can hardly believe my 
eyes. What have you been doing to 
her?" 

“ Washing her," said Nellie, laugh- 
ing. 

“Well, how long are you going to 
keep • her ? I went out to see a board 
of directors this afternoon about put- 
ting her in some establishment.” 

“ 0, Leonard !" cried Mary. 

“Now, Leonard, you are too bad,” 
said his sister. 

“But how did I know what you 
would do with her ? and she was such 


52 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


a wretched looking little thing, I never 
dreamed you would get up any senti- 
ment over her.” 

“ She’s a dear little kitten,” cried 
Nellie, with enthusiasm. 

“ Softly, softly, sister, you cant tell 
what she is yet. The situation is 
novel to her. She may swear like a 
dragoon, and ” 

“0, Leonard, you may be sure we 
have been sounding her. She must 
have had a good mother once, who 
taught her little hymns and prayers. 
She doesn’t seem to know much 
wickedness, though I dare say we shall 
find in the course of time that she can 
do disagreeable things.” 


our saviour’s words. 


53 


“ In the course of time ? then you 
contemplate letting her stay here a 
little while yet.” 

“ Leonard, how you do tease one ?” 
cried Mary, sitting on the side of the 
lounge and placing back a stray' curl. 
u Do you know she has some ways that 
strangely remind me of Dotty? It 
seemed two or three times as if Dotty 
was here right by my side, and as if 
it pleased her to see some one enjoying 
her little playthings.” 

“ What, has it come to that ? play- 
things for the poor beaten waif? well 
well, dear wife, God bless you. What 
a humble future loomed on the hori- 
zon of that poor little child this morn- 


5 * 


54 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


ing ! How strange it must seem to 
her! A home, fine clothes, play- 
things, words of tenderness, a bed like 
that, a — shall I say mother, like my 
own Mary ?” and he kissed the flushed 
cheek. 

“ It must seem to her something as 
heaven will to the storm tossed wan- 
derer,” he went on, glancing at the 
child. “I only hope for your sakes 
that she may continue to be gentle and 
loveable, as you describe her, but we 
must hardly expect that. She has 
been among most dreadful associates, 
and though her tender years may have 
in some measure protected her, yet she 
did not escape scathless I promise you. 


our saviour’s words. 


55 


It could not be expected. So you did 
not find Dotty’s clothes too nice for 
her?” 

“ I have changed my opinion,” said 
Mary, gently. “ Do you remember what 
you said, when you went away this 
noon ?• 

“ Our Saviour’s words ?” 

“ Yes, I thought I could not do too 
much for Christ, so I have concluded 
to use all Dotty’s little dresses, and she 
had a great many, you know. I feel 
thankful, now, that I have then ready 
made.” 

“ So you have really decided to keep 
her?” 


“Yes” 


58 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


“ And shall you still call her Anne ?” 

“ Yes : I like the name ; it was my 
mother’s, you know.” 

“ A pretty name — I like it too. I 
merely spoke because you have the 
privilege of course of changing it, if 
you like. She is ours, if we wish it. 
There are probably no relations of hers 
that will ever come in contact with us. 
Dear little orphan, we must make her 
happy, Mary.” 


ANNE AND THE THIMBLE. 57 


CHAPTER VII. 

and the Thimble* 

HE DAYS went by, and little 
Anne seemed in a long, strange 
wonder. Contrary to the ex- 
pectations of those who had adopted her, 
she gave very little cause for anxiety. 
Her’s was one of those sweet, retiring 
natures that it seems as if no amount 
of cruelty or hard fate will vitiate. 
She had her faults, of course; she 
would often take what pleased her, 
not seeming to understand the moral 
meaning of the action. 



58 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


One day Nellie, who was growing 
more and more attached to the child, 
missed a gold thimble, that had been 
given her by a dear friend. After 
hunting for it high and low — Anne 
was out with her foster mother — she 
repaired to a little box in which the 
child kept her valuables. There, 
among a few valueless beads, and other 
trinkets, laid the gold thimble, snuggly 
tucked in a corner. Nellie stood there 
in thought. “ Can it be that the child 
will disappoint us, after all, and in this 
terrible manner? Is she a thief ?” 
She had once found a little pencil of 
her s in the child’s pocket. It made 
her quite sad, until the thought occurred 


ANNE AND THE THIMBLE. 59 


to her, it may be possible that she does 
not understand the right of possession. 
Who has she had to teach her ? What 
does she know of right and wrong ? At 
all events I trust she is not inherently 
a thief. 

Presently Mary came in with the 
child, who seemed in perpetual aston- 
ishment over her own transformation, 
and never wearied of admiring her 
pretty little gloves and. gaiters. She 
wore a tasteful dress, which of course 
had belonged to Dotty, for Mary had 
forgotten all her prejudices, and as she 
sometimes said, took the “ belongings 
of one angel to enrich another with.” 

Nellie hastened to disrobe her, 


60 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


thinking all the time how pretty she 
was growing, and caressing her with 
something like a mother’s fondness. 

The child was beginning to return 
these marks of affection. At first she 
had seemed so oppressed with the nov- 
elty of her situation, thinking perhaps 
that it was only for a season that she 
was to be treated with kindness, won- 
dering if she should not soon be 
awakened by the coarse voice and 
cruel blow of Marm Hague, and sent, 
with threats and oaths, after whisky, 
that she had been shy of caresses, but 
now she gave kiss after kiss, and 
though her smile was still sometime 
almost painful in its hesitancy, while 


ANNE AND THE THIMBLE. 61 


her large bright eyes seemed to wonder 
whether these things were not illusions, 
still she improved. She loved her doll 
very much, and would sit for a long 
time, thoughtful, quite content, with 
the pleasure of rocking it to and fro. 
Sometimes she could be induced to tell 
of the past, and her memory seemed 
clear. 

“ Mamma did use to live in a pretty, 
pretty house, with a big garden,” she 
said one day, starting out of a reverie, 
during which she had been watching 
the antics of the -canary. 

“ Was it in this city?” asked Mary. 

She shook her head. “ No, we came 
away from there in the cars; I was 
6 


62 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


little then, and my father came with 
ns, but mamma kept crying.” From 
this they inferred that her parents had 
once been in better circumstances. 

“ Had you no brother or sister ?” 

“ Yes, I had a little sister, who did 
die when she did,” meaning her mother. 

To-day, as soon as Miss Anne was 
seated, Nellie spoke of her thimble, 

“ I wonder where it is?” she said; 
“ I am sure I worked with it this morn- 
ing. I wonder if Anne saw it, Aunt 
Nellie’s pretty gold thimble ?” 

“ I guess Anne did see it,” said the 
child, with a profound look, “ it is in 
Anne’s box, becaused Anne liked it; 
she likes pretty things” 


ANNE AND THE THIMBLE. 


C3 


Nellie breathed freer. 

“ But Anne must never take things 
that belong to aunt and mama, because 
it is wrong.” 

“Is it?” queried the little one, 
“ must Anne be beat ?” 

“No, darling, Anne shall never be 
beaten while she lives with us,” said 
Nellie, tearfully. “ She must never take 
things, or if she does she must always 
be ready to tell aunty, or mama where 
they are. Now go and get aunty's 
thimble.” 

The child ran away and soon came 
back with the thimble. The incident 
was told in the evening to Leonard. 

“ Think if such an artless nature as 


64 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


that had been long left in those awful 
slums, how terrible it would have been 
crushed, mutilated out of all shape. 
Mary, we ought to go on our knees, 
night and morning, in thankfulness 
that we have been enabled to save that 
dear little soul. Who can tell what a 
blessing she may become to us. ‘ Who- 
soever receiveth one such little child in 
My name receiveth Me/ ” 


GONE MAD. 


65 


CHAPTER VIII. 





|™HEN Mrs. Longman came 
over to see how her friend 


Mary got on with her “ new 
whim/’ she did not seem as satisfied 
with her poodles, and once she actually 
caught herself kissing the fresh sweet 
face of the little girl, who improved 
every day. 

“But then you might not find one 
such child among a thousand, 1 ” she said, 
as she talked of the matter. “ Children 
of that kind are usually vicious little 


6 * 


66 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


monsters. I think, rather than run the 
risk of getting a bad child on my 
hands, I will stick to my poodles. I 
can sell them or trade them off when 
I get tired of them.” 

“On the other hand you might do 
great good by adopting a child, even 
an erring one. There are better 
chances of sewing good seed and res- 
cuing a dark spirit, setting it, perhaps, 
among the spirits of light. It is even 
a grander and more satisfactory work 
in such a case.” 

Mrs. Longman shrugged her shoul- 
ders, and then looked again at the 
pretty little thing in her pink frock, 
turning over the leaves of her brightly 


GONE MAD. 


67 


colored primmer, picking out the 
letters. Mary smiled. 

“ If you had seen her when she first 
came, Mrs. Longman, you would in all 
probability have despaired of doing 
anything with her. But remember 
she is partly what we have made her 
by indefatigable attention.” 

“ Well, I should want one like that 
to begin with,” laughed back the selfish 
woman. “ I am really afraid of those 
filthy little things one meets with on 
the street.” 

“ There are asylums where you 
might find a dear little child,” said 
Nellie. 

“ Yes, but they always look so much 


68 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


alike, and so unchildish. I want a 
thorough little beauty, if I take one, 
one that dress will show on, and that 
I should not be ashamed of anywhere. 
However, I think I will wait awhile, 
I’m not yet in the mood.” 

“ I don’t know as we do right to en- 
courage her in taking a child,” said 
Leonard, “she seems a vain, artificial 
woman, and might really do a great 
deal more harm than good. You heard 
what she said, she wants a beauty that 
she can make vain and showy like 
herself, a little dressmaker and mil- 
liner’s block. What does she care for 
the starving soul ? I don’t believe she 
would ever give it a thought. She had 


GONE MAD. 


69 


better have poodles without souls, and 
then she runs no risk of spoiling them.” 

“You are severe, Leonard,” said 
Mary. 

“ I know I am, I never can help it 
when I see Mrs. Longman, rich and 
powerful, and think what blessed, 
golden opportunities she is throwing 
away, wasting her sympathies besides 
on those precious puppies. The woman 
w r as never sent into the world for that 
purpose, and it is aggravating to see so 
much money wrongly expended.” 

“Mrs. Longman had driven home. 
Her favorite maid met her with bad 
news. Fanny was very ill. She snap- 
ped and growled and the girl did not 


70 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


dare to touch her. She would eat no 
food. 

“ How silly you are, Grace !” said her 
mistress, lounging to the room where 
Fanny, her red eyes more inflamed 
than ever, lay snapping ungraciously 
at whoever came near her. Not even 
her mistress had any influence over 
the spoiled pet. In vain she plied her 
with the most tempting viands, Fanny 
only snarled or yelped like a cross child. 
It went on so for a day or two, then 
Grace came in one morning so pale and 
ghostlike that even her unimpressible 
mistress was frightened. 

“For mercy’s sake, what is the 
matter, child !” she cried. 


GONE MAD. 


71 


“ Fanny has gone mad.” 

“ Nonsense.” 

“ It is the truth ; J ohn said so ; he 
caught her by throwing a thick piece 
of carpet over her, and shot her, out in 
the stable.” 

“ How dare he !” cried Mrs. Longman 
with blazing eyes. 

“ She frothed at the mouth and had 
dreadful spasms. 0! it was awful.” 
She crept closer to her mistress, as she 
whispered, “But the most dreadful 
thing is, that last night she bit me; 
see here.” 

Mrs. Longman sprang from her seat 
with a cry. There was a wound look- 
ing red and angry on the girl's thumb* 


72 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


A terror seized the woman, a selfish 
terror. 

“ You must go away at once, Grace,” 
she said, “ you must go to the hospital, 
where they can care for you. I can 
do nothing; I should not know the 
first thing to do, and they always cut 
it, or burn it.” 

“ That should have been done last 
night,” said Grace. “I came up to 
say good-bye ; I have not felt well all 
the morning. I shall go at once to the 
Sloane Hospital. Father is a watch- 
man there, and he can get me in.” 

“ How can you be so calm about it ?” 
cried her mistress, who was now weep- 
ing freely, for with what little heart 


GONE MAD. 


73 


she possessed, she liked this girl, who 
had been a faithful and loving servant 
for three years. 

“ I suppose because God enables me 
to be,” said Grace. “I know there 
can be no help for me now, if Fanny 
was really mad. The poison has had 
time to circulate through my system, 
and no earthly help will avail me. I 
am sorry for poor father ; but oh ! I 
have tried to love and serve the Lord 
Jesus Christ, in my poor way, and he 
does not desert me now. My dear 
mistress, if I never see you again, re- 
member my last words; don’t go on 
living without Christ, and without God, 
in the world. Pardon me for being so 


7 


74 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


bold, but I may never have another 
opportuity.” 

“ Pardon you — when you have been 
so kind and faithful ; oh ! Grace, how 
can I let you go ?” sobbed the woman, 
unconstrainedly. “ I wish I had never 
seen the creature, the horrid brute ; if 
it costs your life, my poor girl, I shall 
never forgive myself.” 

“It might have been worse,” said 
Grace, simply. “If she had bitten 
you as well as me, or others in the 
house. I am going now, good-morn- 
ing. 

“I will see that you have every 
comfort, Grace,” said her mistress, 
standing back, as Grace made an 


GONE MAD. 


75 


expressive gesture that she should 
come no nearer. “0, Grace, I hope 
there’s no danger !” 

The girl who had with a strange 
calmness and forethought sent for 
the carriage, threw on her sacque and 
bonnet, and as Mrs. Longman stood at 
the window, lifted her grave, white 
face as she was driven off, and smiled. 
Her mistress never forgot that smile. 
She saw it at all seasons, and all hours, 
that brave, sadly sweet smile, and 
while she wondered a.t her composure, 
her heart told her that it was the 
constant reliance upon God, indicated 
in all her ways and in every service 
performed, that lent her strength. 


76 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


She had often surprised Grace reading 
the Bible, or quaint little books that 
she almost despised her for liking. 
She remembered that Grace had said 
once, when she offered her a highly 
wrought fiction, 

“ Perhaps I was brought up too 
strict, ma’am, but my father never 
allowed me.” She had laughed at the 
answer, and called her a little Puritan, 
but now she questioned of her own 
soul whether such reading prepared 
the mind for any great and solemn 
crisis, and something within thundered, 
“ No!” 


a father’s letter. 


77 


CHAPTER IX. 


Pathos better* 



l^jjHEY summoned John and 


questioned him about Eanny. 

“ He was sure she was mad,” 


he said, “ the instant he clapped his two 
eyes on her.” 

“ But how can that take place 
at this season ?” queried his mis- 
tress. 

John couldn’t pretend to tell. He 
only knew that he had a dog once 
that went mad in January, and he 
didn’t believe it was all owing to the 


7 * 


78 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


weather but some disease inherent in 
dog-nature, he couldn’t tell what. 

“ And did you know that Fanny bit 
Grace ?” 

“ Not till this morning,” said John, 
“ and it’s all up with her,” he added, 
shaking his head. 

“Oil hope not,” cried Mrs. Long- 
man, distressfully. 66 1 shall never 
want to see a dog again as long as I 
live. Petit must be sent away; I 
must pay for his care or have him 
killed. As for you, John, go every 
day to the hospital, and inquire for 
Grace.” 

“ I should do that, anyway,” replied 
John, who was very fond of Grace. 


a father’s letter. 


79 


As for Mrs. Longman, all her com- 
fort was gone. She walked through 
her richly furnished rooms, listlessly, 
as one without aim or hope ; she 
thought continually of the good girl 
who had been like an angel under her 
roof, saw always that white, firm face, 
that smile so touching in its sadness ; 
heard always those last words, as the 
young girl stood on the threshold of 
the door, aye, and on the threshold of 
death, “Don’t go on living without 
Christ and without God in the world.” 
Of these things, assuredly, the rich 
and fashionable Mrs. Longman had 
never thought before. All her life she 
had existed merely to dress and eat, 


80 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


to see and be seen. Now these com- 
forts and pleasures seemed to be losing 
their attraction to her. She had been 
in the habit of spending money freely 
on herself and her pampered house- 
hold, of whom her dogs had been the 
most important part. These creatures 
had cost her more than she liked to 
think of, while they had given her no 
adequate return, nor offered any intel- 
lectual gratification. As she walked 
back and forth, thinking over these 
things, there came a letter to her, 
directed in a strange hand. She 
opened it and read as follows. — 


“My Dear Madam: — At the re- 


A FATHERS LETTER. 


81 


quest of my daughter I write you. I am 
to say that the doctors do not think her 
case a hopeless one, as they are trying 
a new remedy that has cured a great 
many in Germany. I am also to say 
that my daughter sends you her love 
and is very happy whatever the crisis 
may be. You are not to be anxious on 
her account, as she has settled with her 
God, and feels sure that her heavenly 
mansion is prepared for her. I am to 
say that she prays for you, that you 
may see Christ as she sees Him, that 
she has been praying for you ever 
since she has lived with you, and if 
her death will effect a change in your 
heart, she would be willing to go. 


82 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


And now for myself. My dear child 
is in great danger, as I cannot help 
seeing, though encouraged to hope. 
She has ever been one of the sweetest 
and best of children, though you may 
be surprised to hear of no kin to me. 
The fact is that my wife found her one 
day, tramping about the country in 
very poor company, and determined to 
adopt her, though we had then three 
children. The Lord rewarded us for 
it, though we were poor in purse. 
One after another our own children 
died, but this girl lived to prove a 
blessing to us. She was always a 
good little thing, and took as it were, 
naturally, to the truths of the Bible. 


a father’s letter. 


83 


Many a time she has kept up our 
sinking faith when it seemed as if every- 
thing went against us. Lately, while 
my wife was in poor health, she has 
sent us nearly all her wages. I thank 
God for her, and also that I have been 
able to train her up so that she is calm 
and willing while looking, it may be, 
for death. 

“ Very truly yours, .” 

This letter only deepened the inten- 
sity of Mrs. Longman’s emotions. She 
had been in Grace’s room, and taken 
from there the Bible used habitually 
by the girl, (she always made it a point 
to have a Bible in every servant’s room,) 


84 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


and when she entered her own apart- 
ment she opened it, stealthily, and the 
first lines she read were these — 

“ Whoso receiveth one such little 
child in My name, receiveth Me.” 

She read the verse again and again, 
turning it over in her mind, holding it 
in every possible light. “This poor 
man,” she said to herself, “burdened 
his household with a stranger, while he 
was, maybe, hard pushed to feed his 
own little ones : and I, rich and of 
some influence, have sat in luxury and 
idleness, petting two yelping lap-dogs, 
spending money upon them, and starv- 
ing my own soul. Strange that I seem 
never to have read that verse before. 


A FATHERS LETTER. 


85 


It mast have a wonderful meaning. 
Little as I know of Christ, or religion, 
I know that if there is anything in 
either, there is everything. Christ is 
God, and to receive a little child in 
his name, is like receiving the Lord of 
heaven and earth into one’s house. 
How stupendous the meaning of* that 
little verse ! One never feels worthy 
of receiving such a blessing. I wonder 
if I took a little child to care for, God 
would reveal himself to me ? But am 
I prepared for it ? Can I give up the 
ease and even idleness which have be- 
come my second nature ? Can I bring 
myself to love a poor, neglected little 
child, too look after its interest ? No, 


86 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


I am not right myself, how can I train 
a child ? 0, that I were a Christian ! 

How vapid and purposeless all my past 
life appears as I look back upon it. ,, 


THE STORY OF LITTLE DOTTY. 87 


CHAPTER X. 

Th# Story of Littlo Hotty* 

t NNE sat rooking in her little 
chair and sinking, “ I want to 
~ - be an angel.” 

Presently she looked up and asked, 
“ Mamma, what is an angel ?” 

" Why, when little girls die and go 
to heaven, they become angels.” 

“ Only little girls ?” 

"No dear, everybody who has loved 
the Lord Jesus, and tried to follow 
after his example.” 

“ Then is my mamma an angel?” 


88 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


'“ I hope so, my dear.” 

“Did you ever know a little girl 
that growed to be an angel ?” 

“ Yes, dear,” tears filled Mary’s eyes, 
“the little one, for whom that pretty 
dress and apron you have on were 
made, went to be an angel, one day.” 

Anne smoothed down the folds of 
the white apron, and looked it thought- 
fully all over. 

“ Did she ever wear it ?” 

“Often, dear; she was particularly 
fond of that little apron.” 

“ Did she look like me ?” 

“ Sometimes I think she did a little, 
she had blue eyes, and curls, just like 
yours.” 


THE STORY OF LITTLE DOTTY. 89 


“ Yv r as she your little girl?” 

“Yes, my own little darling sister, 
whose mamma went away to be an 
angel too, when she was born. So I 
always took care of her, and dressed 
her. She used to love dearly to sing 
‘I want to be an angel/ and ‘ Christ 
in the Manger/ and many pretty 
tunes.” 

“I wish you would tell me about 
her,” said Anne, lifting her doll from 
the floor, and preparing to give it a 
long nap. “Was you sorry when she 
went to be an angel.” 

“ I was very sorry, dear. It seemed 
to me that she went in such a strange 
way that I could not for many weeks 
8 * 


90 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


be reconciled at all, and I fear I was 
almost wicked in my sorrow. She was 
a dear little girl, only a few months 
older than you are now. She had blue 
eyes, as I said before, and golden hair 
that hung in long curls, and pretty red 
lips that were, oh ! so sweet to kiss.” 

Here little Anne pursed up her 
own little red lips, and Mary bent 
softly over and kissed them. Aunt 
Nellie came in at that moment with a 
large new doll in her hands, and some 
pretty silks that she was making it a 
dress with. So she smiled and stooped 
over to kiss Anne likewise, and it made 
the child very happy. 

“One day Dotty, her name was 


THE STORY OF LITTLE DOTTY. 91 


Harriett, but we always called her 
Dotty, was taken sick, and then she had 
a fever,” continued Mary. “ But she 
got quite well, and grew prettier and 
dearer than ever. Then the doctors 
said w T e must take her out into the 
country to see the green grass and the 
red flowers grow; that she needed to 
run about in the fresh air, and have 
her yellow curls tumbled by the merry 
wind that loves to frolic over the 
fields, and her pretty white skin 
turned brown by the kisses of the 
sun. So we all set to work to make 
our little Dotty some new cool dresses, 
and Aunt Nellie there made her one 
of the nicest little sun bonnets out of 


92 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


white muslin, and run it full of little 
cords, and it fit her dear little head, 
and made her look like a tidy, cunning 
woman. Well,” — Mary stopped knit- 
ting now, and went to smoothing Anne’s 
soft hair as she sat right under her 
hand, — “ there is a nice old farm house, 
forty miles from here, and it belongs 
to Uncle Ralph. You have never seen 
Uncle Ralph. He’s a tall farmer man 
with a long silver beard, and beautiful 
brown eyes, and he farms and writes 
books for children, beautiful books 
they are, Anne shall read them when 
she is old enough. So we thought we 
would take her out to that fine farm, 
where there is a blue river running 


THE STORY OF LITTLE DOTTY. 93 


right through.” Mary shuddered now, 
but she kept on smoothing Anne’s 
hair, and Anne kept hugging her doll, 
pretending it was fast asleep though 
its eyes were staring right at her. 

“ It was a pleasant J uly morning 
when we took the cars for Lineville, 
and Dotty, who had never been on 
the cars before was as happy as she 
could be, singing all the way. When 
we got there, Uncle Ealph was waiting 
for us with the great farm wagon, and 
two splendid great gray horses that 
looked as if whatever dearth there 
might be in the rest of the world, at 
the old oak farm there were more oats 
than a great many gray horses could eat, 


m 


94 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


and hay enough to match them. So 
Dotty was set up on the seat, — dear 
little thing how her sweet eyes seem to 
look out at me now, as she eagerly 
watched for me to follow her; she 
knew no mother but me, poor little 
darling i By-and-by the mighty frame 
of the old house, that was as gray as 
its owner, came in sight, and all 
around it were the farm buildings, the 
wide barn, whose front always looked 
to me with its two windows, long door 
and big trough in front, like a great 
good-natured, tawny face, smiling 
broadly with welcome. Back of the 
house and on one side were great 
sloping hills, that seemed some way to 


THE STORY OF LITTLE DOTTY. 95 


swell into the blue atmosphere — 
everywhere else the cornfields were 
spread out, and the blue brown 
orchards, with great masses of shade 
lying along under the fruit trees, as 
if they were improvising enormous 
baskets for the fruit to drop into. At 
this time Dottle’s eyes were quite 
heavy with sleep, for she had been 
awaked up very early, and two 
journeys were almost too much for 
her.” 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


CHAPTER XL 
in thn Country 
ENNY, Uncle Ralph’s 



h wife, was at the door, waiting 


continued Mary, 


large, handsome woman, covered all 
over with a great white apron that 
was as white as snow.” 

“ Like mine,” said little Anne, 
patting her wee apron, complacently. 

“ Yes, as white as our little Anne’s, 
here.” 

“ And did she wear it on her face ?” 
asked the child with exceeding anxiety. 


DOTTY IN THE COUNTRY. 97 


“No, dear,” and Mary and Aunt 
Nellie laughed over the wise little 
head; “I mean all over her dress 
which was gray, and quite short, 
showing a pair of thick black cloth 
shoes underneath. And this good 
Aunt Jenny took little Dotty in her 
arms, and cried a little, because she 
was a poor dear motherless baby, she 
said, for Aunt Jennie was my mother’s 
only sister, and they had loved each 
other dearly. So she carried the child 
up into a great square, white chamber, 
where there was a bed that seemed 
almost as large and high as this room. 
And after Dotty had had some fresh 
milk and bread, and had been un- 
9 


98 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


dressed and tied into a nice long night 
gown, Aunt Jenny popped her' on top 
of this great soft bed, and there she 
laid like a little mouse in a bushel of 
feathers, laughing and lifting her head 
and peeping at us. But by-and-by 
her little blue eyes grew heavy, just 
as Anne’s do, and forgetting that it 
was day-time, she said the little prayer 
that Anne says, and in a few minutes 
she was fast asleep.” 

“ Wasn't that nice ?” cried Anne. 

“Beautiful! and she slept two or 
three hours, so that we had dinner all 
cleared away when she waked up, but 
Aunt Jenny had saved her some 
huckleberries and milk.” 


DOTTY IN THE COUNTRY. 


99 


Anne smacked her lips. 

“ Well, I never could begin to tell 
you what a good time Dotty had,” said 
Mary, her voice trembling, for she had 
never said so much about Dotty 
before. “ Sometimes she would go into 
the great barn with Aunt Jenny to 
find eggs as white as milk, sometimes 
she fed the hens, and laughed till she 
cried at the funny antics of the scores 
of little chickens who would get mixed 
together, and then when their 
mothers cried, sorted themselves in a 
twinkling, under Speckle Hen and Yel- 
low Wing, and Black Foot, and Turtle 
Head, for all the hens had names, and 
knew them. They would come at the 


100 


ORPHAN ANNE, 


call of Uncle Ralph, but never for 
anybody else. And sometimes I could 
see her perched up on a load of hay 
with one of the farm hands beside her, 
or riding on the back of one of the 
sober old gray horses, as happy as a 
little queen. Blessed baby !” and Mary 
stopped to wipe away a few tears and 
then smiled down at little Anne, who 
was so much interested that she had 
let her doll slide down to the floor 
where it laid helplessly on its face. 
“ Sometimes when I missed her, I 
could hear her cry out ‘Here I am, 
mamma Mary !’ and by-and-by I could 
see a little face like a white and red 
rose upturned from the midst of a 


DOTTY IN THE COUNTRY. 101 


great clump of grass that almost hid her. 
Never did a child enjoy herself more; 
whether she rode or walked, by 
herself, or in company, she was always 
as merry and as happy as a little 
human lark. She did love flowers so ! 
and not a day passed but she collected 
beautiful bunches, and however often 
she brought them, I must put them 
carefully in water and keep them nice 
and bright. Up stairs in a little box 
Aunt Nellie has the last flowers she 
ever picked, little angel, and Annie 
shall see them sometimes. 

“ There was a deep river running 
through the farm, but it was almost 
half a mile from the house, and we 


9 * 


102 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


never had gone that way, because 
Uncle Ralph said the land was low 
and not very clear. Someway I had 
quite forgotten about the river, and as 
Dotty was almost always in sight when 
playing round, I never thought of it 
as a dangerous place. One day I had 
dressed Dotty in her prettiest white 
muslin dress, and tied the sleeves up 
with blue ribbon, kissed her cool little 
dimpled shoulders, and sent her out 
to play. I was not well, myself, and 
charging the servant to look after her, 
I went to lie down and try and sleep 
off my headache. I never shall forget 
how the little darling came running 
back and calling out, 6 Dive me anover 


DOTTY IN THE COUNTRY. 103 


tiss, mamma Mary/ nor how I hugged 
her and took my fill of kisses, she was 
so bright and sweet and beautiful ! 0, 

how little did I think, it was the last, 
last time !” For a moment Mary hid 
her face in her hands. 

“ Don’t cry, mamma,” murmured 
Anne, plaintively. 

“No, dear, I was only thinking I 
ought to be so glad that Dotty is a 
blessed little angel, free from all pain 
and trouble. I was awakened by what 
seemed strange noises. When I went 
down stairs I found that Uncle Ralph 
had been thrown from his horse and 
seriously bruised. Everybody was 
running this way and that, and the 


104 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


house was all in confusion. For a 
time I was as panic stricken as the 
rest, but after a while I suddenly re- 
membered Dotty, and going to the door 
called her. To my fear and astonish- 
ment she was nowhere to be seen, I 
ran out crying ‘ little Dotty !’ with all 
my might, but no little Dotty answered, 
then I hurried to the barn, but it was 
empty, only of sweet smells of hay, 
oats, and sunshine. I shall never 
forget how I felt when I came out of 
that barn. All at once my strength 
seemed to leave me, and I sank down 
upon the soft grass, and looked up 
hopelessly into the blue sky, that ap- 
peared as if suddenly some great dark 


DOTTY IN TEE COUNTRY. 105 


shadow had overspread it; I seemed to 
see Dotty’s face everywhere, yet to feel 
that to me she was nowhere. 0, how 
my heart ached ! I ran back to the farm 
and questioned all the servants. Uncle 
Kalph was easier now, so that some of 
them hurried away to find her. Three 
men went off in as many directions, 
and I took another, calling all the time 
‘ Dotty, dear little Dotty !’ And with 
every step it seemed as if the dark 
shadow grew darker. To make it more 
dreadful a thunder shower came on, 
and it began to rain hard, so that in a 
few moments I was drenched to the 
skin. Ah ! I never shall forget that 
dreadful day when every body came 


106 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


back looking scared, and said that 
Dotty was nowhere to he seen. All at 
once I saw the river; I had never been 
there, but I felt as if the banks were 
steep, and the precious lamb had 
strayed thither and fallen in. Nobody 
could believe it, but when the dark 
night came on and still the child was 
not to be seen, they were sad enough 
all over the house. Well, I could not 
rest, I think I was almost crazy, every 
few moments I would think of some 
new place and fly off and search, feeling 
as if Dotty must come, and yet that she 
would not, that she could not, that 
God had taken her in some mysterious 
way to himself, that I should never 


DOTTY IN THE COUNTRY. 10T 


kiss and hug her as I had kissed and 
hugged her that morning, when little 
knowing it, I was parting with her for 
the last time.” 


108 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Hatty an $.ngnh 

LL that night I neither slept 
nor rested, I could not keep 
still. Some of the farm-hands 
had been down to the river with lan- 
terns, for they all loved Dotty dearly, 
and could not bear to think she would 
never come back, but they saw no signs 
of my poor child. In the morning 
they took ropes and boats and began 
to drag the river all around the house. 

“ But Dotty was an angel long before 
that time, little Anne, though they did 



DOTTY AN ANGEL. 


109 


not find her till night, under the dark 
water, white and still, and drenched 
like a lily whose life has gone out 
while it floated. Yes, Dotty was an 
angel, and her wet white robes and 
blue ribbons had been exchanged for 
the beautiful spotless robes of heaven. 
Her little fingers that would never 
clasp mine again, oh ! how I held them 
and kissed them, but the life would 
not come back, it was too late. Hours 
and hours she had been in the river, 
hours and hours her little spirit had 
been with the dear Saviour whom she 
always loved to talk about. I don’t 
know what I did while she lay there 
vn the house, — Uncle Ralph was very 


10 


110 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


* ill, Aunt Jenny had to be much of the 
time with him, but nobody touched the 
darling but me. I took off all the 
little wet clothes, and wiped the limbs 
that seemed rigid and cold as marble. 
I put on her simple little nightgown, 
and laid her in the middle of that 
great bed, and then I lay down beside 
her. God mercifully gave me uncon- 
sciousness for a time ; I slept all the 
night, and found myself beside her in 
the morning with pitying tearful neigh- 
bors looking on. 

“ Well, dear, we thought we had best 
bury darling little Dotty under the 
grass and flowers she had loved so well ; 
so we found a beautiful spot on Uncle 


DOTTY AN ANGEL. 


Ill 


Ralph’s farm, and we laid the dear 
baby there. And that’s how blessed 
little Dotty came to be an angel.” 

“ I should like to be an angel, and 
see her,” said Anne, picking up her 
doll and patting it to sleep again. 

“ Mary,” said Nellie, looking up, then 
starting towards the door, “here is 
Uncle Ralph.” Anne drew up nearer 
to Mary and held her doll more closely 
as the tall, bronzed farmer entered. 

“ Well, how do you all do T he cried, 
while Anne wondered where his mouth 
was as he kissed Mary and Nellie. 

“Why who is this wee one?” he 
asked, looking at Anne with his gentle, 
loving brown eyes. 


112 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


“It’s a little girl I have adopted, 
uncle,” said Mary. 

“You don’t tell me!” cried Uncle 
Ralph, smiling, and putting his soft felt 
hat into Nellie’s hands. “ Why ! why ! 
and she’s a nice little birdie, with blue 
eyes. How long have you had her?” 

“ Only a few weeks,” was the reply, 
“ but she is such a loving little thing, 
I feel as if she had been with me for 
years.” 

“ I’m very glad, I’m sure,” said 
Uncle Ralph; “I have been wishing 
you would do this thing a great while. 
There are so many motherless bairns 
afloat on this great sea of humanity. 
I suppose she had no mother ?” 



u Won’t you come to me, little one?” Page 113 




♦ 


















V 








DOTTY AN ANGEL. 


113 


“ Neither mother nor father,” replied 
Mary. 

“Ah! poor dear,” sighed Uncle 
Ralph as he seated himself and held 
out his hands; “won’t you come to 
me, little one ?” 

Anne looked at him for a moment, 
and then reading with a child’s won- 
derful intuition the goodness and 
sweetness of his life, in the soft brown 
eyes, and the glance of sympathy, she 
went over and found herself lying 
softly against the long, flowing gray 
beard, pressed to a heart that beat 
lovingly for all mankind. 

“ When is she coming out to Oak 
Farm ?” he queried, patting her cheeks. 
10* 


114 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


“ Is that where Dotty went to be an 
angel ?” asked Anne. 

“ Yes, dear, but the river is all fenced 
in now, and a great mill built on it, so 
that I don’t think Anne could get in 
there, even if she wanted to. Dotty’s 
grave looks as fresh now almost as if 
it was summer,” he said, “for the little 
evergreen bushes and box are almost 
as bright as June sunlight could make 
them. You must come out there, Mary, 
just as soon as the warm weather is on 
us. This little thing has never seen 
the country.” 

“ I lived there once,” said Anne. 

“ 0, you did ; then you have watched 
the grass growing, and the pretty 


DOTTY AN ANGEL. 


115 


birdies flitting from branch to branch, 
and the flowers bursting out into pretty 
colors, I dare say, but it’s done all over 
again every spring and summer, a 
grand resurrection of buried nature 
changing all the world to beauty. 
Good ! perhaps you were born in the 
country ; if so its sweet fresh air will 
seem natural to you.” 


116 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

tltt-cl# StalpVs Hisit* 

f |HE only son that Uncle Ralph 
had ever had became intem- 
perate, and left his father’s 
home in anger. 

“I suppose Uncle Ralph will hunt 
as usual for some tidings of his unfor- 
tunate boy,” said Nellie, as the old 
gentleman went out. 

“ Yes,” responded Mary, “ he never 
comes to the city but he goes about 
trying to hear tidings of my poor cousin. 


uncle Ralph’s visit. 


117 


I have long thought him dead, so has 
Leonard.’’ 

“ He married, didn’t he ?” 

“Yes, a very pretty, sweet girl, 
though possessing little force of charac- 
ter. She was an orphan, poor thing, 
who kept school. I suppose he must 
have led her a terrible life. After they 
were married they moved to Stamford, 
where I heard she still tried to keep 
school, but he grew worse and worse, 
and at last they came to the city. 
Poor Uncle Ralph, he never had but 
the one child, and he almost broke his 
heart. It must be terrible to be disap- 
pointed in one’s children so. Every 
year he comes in town and goes on a 


118 


ORPHAN ANNE 


tour through the city, trying in every 
way to find traces of his son. Last 
year he thought he had been successful. 
He was directed to a house where a 
poor man lay dying of consumption. 
For several days Uncle Ralph went 
back and forth, but at the last he found 
out that he had been giving care to an 
utter stranger. He was not sorry for 
that, of course, only it was a great 
disappointment.” 

“ ‘ If I can only find him alive and 
penitent,’ he has often said, ‘ I should 
thank God and then be ready to go.’ ” 

Uncle Ralph came back to dinner 
and he and Anne were soon the best 
of friends. He was ready for any- 


uncle Ralph’s visit. 119 


thing, tackled into harness and driven 
about, to carry Anne on his back, like 
the nicest kind of a nice horse, to play 
shop and weigh out enormous quan- 
tities of nothing, to take long journeys 
from one end of the room to the other, 
to tell pretty stories, to do whatever 
his small tyrant demanded. 

“ Have you got any little children ?” 
she asked. Uncle Ralph shook his head. 

“ No little children, but plenty of 
little kittens,” he said. 

“ 0, little kittens !” 

“ Yes, in the big barn, six or seven 
of them, and some of them are as 
pretty and cunning as ever a little girl 
would wish to see. And then I have 


120 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


twenty, thirty, forty of the nicest 
little piggies that ever were, as clean 
and round as the kittens ; only think, 
this room full, almost. ,, 

Anne drew a long sigh of utter 
amazement. 

“ And the dearest little white 1am- 
mies, he went on, little things that 
can hardly stagger about; and they do 
look so funny .” 

“I should like to see them” said 
Anne. 

“And a dozen little calves, some 
red, some white, some dappled, that 
play about the fields all the long days 
when the grass is green. Then there 
are the rabbits.” 


uncle Ralph’s visit. 


121 


“ 0, I dearly love rabbits/’ said 
Anne, “ pretty little white things with 
long ears.” 

“ And as soft as satin. Then there 
are the ducks and chickens, dozens and 
dozens of them, yellow and white and 
brown and every color.” 

“ Dotty used to feed the chickens, 
didn’t she ?” 

“Yes, Dotty loved the little chick- 
ens,” and Uncle Ralph sighed heavily. 
Perhaps he thought of other dimpled 
fingers that had so often fed the chick- 
ens, the hands of his own boy, his 
curly headed blue-eyed Ralph, who 
had persisted in going wrong though 
his father had tried his utmost to 
11 


122 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


make him a good boy and a noble 
man. He was not sad long, though, 
this Uncle Ralph, who always put 
aside his own griefs to make other 
people happy. 

“ I think,” he said the next day, 
when it was raining and he could not 
go out. “I think I’ll tell my pet a 

story.” 

* 


THE LITTLE CHILD. 


123 


CHAPTER XIY. 

“Th* hi ttU ehil&S 9 

T HAT’S the name of my story,” 
said Uncle Ralph. “ The little 
child was an orphan. He was 
sent out houseless, and sometimes, 
poor little waif, he was pushed aside 
by thoughtless travelers. Once some- 
body struck him, it might be out of 
sheer wantonness, and the poor little 
man cried wofully as he moved along, 
with only cold bare hands to wipe 
his streaming eyes. He remembered 
a time, young as he was, when loving 


124 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


arms enfolded him. To be thrust 
forth now, into the cold and storm, to 
be clothed in rags, to be fed on mouldy 
crusts, was a new and a terrible experi- 
ence. And the little pauper boy sat 
down upon the curb-stones, and began 
to think. His feet were bare, red, and 
cold; the chill wind cut through his 
ragged garments, but he did not feel 
that much, he was getting used to it. 
He wanted to think. 

“ Who were these people passing him, 
looking so warm and comfortable ? 
What did it mean that they should be 
happy and cheerful, and he so sad? 
None of them could have heavy hearts 
he was sure. He looked up into the 


THE LITTLE CHILD. 


125 


sky, so cold and blue ! Who lived up 
there, and why didn’t God, who was 
so good, give him something to eat? 
Somebody had told him once that God 
would take care of him, where was 
God ? 0, if he could only see God for 

one little moment, or the angels that 
the good man told him about when 
his mother died! Did folks ever see 
angels ? 

“An organ-grinder came near and 
took his stand. What beautiful 
things he played ! their melody light- 
ened the boy’s heart somewhat, but it 
didn’t warm him or make him less 
hungry. He kept shivering in spite 
of the music, and he felt so lonely! 

11 * 


126 


ORPHAN ANNE- 


so desponding ! Then the organ- 
grinder passed away and the people 
kept thronging by ; they never 
heeded, they never cared for the little 
child sitting on the curb-stone, they 
had so many other things to think of, 
some of children of their own to 
whom they were carrying pretty toys 
in hands and pockets. The carriages 
passed, and the carts, and a company 
of soldiers with flags and music, but 
it was all dumb show to him. He 
was trying to think with such a dull 
pain at his heart. Presently several 
rude, coarse boys gathered behind him, 
winking and laughing at one another. 
Another moment the youngest one, 


THE LITTLE CHILD. 


127 


with the spite of a demon, gave a 
thrust, and over went the poor, harm- 
less little child in the gutter. One 
scream of pain, one sob of anguish as 
he gathered himself up, and looked 
after the boys now flying away with 
shouts of mirth. 0, how cruel it 
seemed in them, how cruel ! The 
hungry child walked slowly on, sob- 
bing and shivering. 

“ At last he stopped at the corner of 
a street, the little, weeping, homeless, 
motherless child. An apple-stand 
stood near, and his longing eyes fas- 
tened themselves upon it. It was kept 
by an old blear-eyed man, who was 
very cross. There were cakes on the 


128 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


stand such as are dear to the taste of 
children, and the poor little mouth of 
the houseless child watered as he saw 
other hoys deposit their pennies, and 
eat their cakes. He had no penny, 
and though gaunt hunger looked out 
of his eyes, the cross old man never 
offered him a morsel. Perhaps the 
man did not think. Contact with 
poverty had made his heart hard, and 
hungry faces were no new sight to him. 

“ The tempter came. The old man’s 
back was turned. A vile boy at his 
side, nudged the little boy’s elbow. 

“ ‘ Take one/ he said, ‘ I’ll give you 
half.’ 


“The little child gazed at him, 


THE LITTLE CHILD. 


129 


steadily. He saw something in the 
bad, bold eyes that made him shrink, 
something that set his heart beating. 

“ ‘ Steal one, I say/ whispered the 
boy, ‘I wont tell, and we’ll go away 
and eat it.’ 

“ ‘ It’s wicked to steal/ replied the 
houseless child. 

“ ‘ 0 you fool !’ muttered the wicked 
tempter, and smote him in the eyes, 
his heavy hand dealing a blow that 
sent the poor little child against the 
wall, his whole frame quivering with 
anguish. The terrible blow had 
blinded him for a moment, a great sob 
choked him; what had he done to be 
treated so ? 


130 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


“ Pie started to cross the street. A 
blinding pain made his poor temples 
ring again. 

“ ‘ Back ! back !’ cried a frantic voice. 
6 Good heavens, the child is under his 
feet ! back ! back !’ 

“ Too late. 

“ ‘ 0 mamma, our horse has run over 
a poor little boy, oh! mamma!’ sobbed 
a beautiful child. 

“ ‘ Is he hurt ?’ the woman’s face is 
pale as ashes. ‘ Yes, I see he is sadly 
hurt. Take him in ; it was our care- 
lessness. Thank God we are at home.’ 

“ There was no anguish now. Per- 
haps God saw that he had borne all he 
could, and so took the poor little broken 


THE LITTLE CHILD. 


181 


heart up there to heal. How very 
white and quiet he was. 

“ ‘ What a sweet little face !’ mur- 
mured a womanly voice, ‘a sweet, 
sweet face !’ and tears fell on his for- 
head, but he does not feel them.” 

“ 0, the poor, poor little boy !” sobs 
Nellie, “ oh ! the poor little child ! I 
wish he had kept on the sidewalk ; I 
wish he had staid with his mother.” 

“ Alas ! in this world there was no 
mother for him to stay with. 

“ The doctor came, said he was not 
dead, but would very likely die. 
There was a hospital near, the poor 
creature had better be sent there. But 
the good woman would not hear to 


132 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


that. She would care for him herself, 
she said, he had been injured by her 
horses, and she felt it was her duty to 
attend to him. Besides, it was likely 
that the child had no mother. Such a 
boy, with a face so sweet and girlish, 
so pure and loveable, would never be 
sent in the streets like that, if he had 
a mother. Besides, and here her tears 
fell, there was a little mound, not yet 
green, over just such a child. No, no, 
it was not in her heart to put the poor 
wounded boy away. ‘Let him stay 
whether he lived or died/ 

“ Well, the weary, weary days passed 
on. One morning the little boy opened 
his dim blue eyes, but he did not know 


THE LITTLE CHILD. 


133 


himself. His glance fell wearily on 
his hands. There were white ruffles 
at the wrists; the bed was snowy 
white, too, and a soft, crimson light 
fell over everything.” 

“‘I am in heaven/ murmured the 
child sweetly, ‘God has made me an 
angel.’ ” 

“ What vision of loveliness was that 
glancing from the shadow behind the 
bed? The rich curls fell all about a 
face of exquisite beauty, the beaming 
eyes looked love and gentleness upon 
him. 

“ ‘ And that’s an angel, too/ he said 
softly. ‘ I’m so glad ! they won’t strike 
me here, they won’t ask me to steal, 
12 


134 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


and I shall never die again. Now if I 
could only see mamma/ 

66 6 My dear boy, are you better this 
evening ?’ asked a low, sweet voice. 

“ He turned, slowly, wearily. 

“ ‘ Are you better, dear ?’ 

“ ‘ Are you my mother ?’ he queried. 

“ ‘ Yes/ and there were sobs and 
tears, ‘ yes, my poor little child, I will 
be your mother and you shall be my 
son. Do you love me ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, I love you, mother. Is this 
heaven ?’ 

“ ‘ Heaven ! no, darling, it is still 
earth ; but God sent you to our hearts 
to be loved and cared for. See, here is 
a little sister for you, and you must be 


THE LITTLE CHILD. 


135 


very happy with her. Kiss him, 
Nellie.’ 

“ Her rosy lips touched his pale 
cheek, and a heavenly smile lightened 
up his face. The past was not all for- 
gotten, but it was gone. No more 
crusts, oaths, harsh words and blows. 
No more begging at basement doors, 
and looking half famished to envy a 
dog gnawing his bone in the street. 
No more fear of rude children, no more 
sleeping on and under door-steps, and 
listening in terror to the drunkard, and 
the quarrels of the vicious and de- 
praved. 

“ Yes, the past seemed very far gone, 
and in the rosy future was love, even 


136 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


God and tlie angels. Certainly Holy 
Spirits had guarded that child and 
guided him out of evil into good. 
Surely henceforth he could put his 
hand trustingly in theirs, and turn his 
face heavenward. 

“Yes, so it was to be! The little 
teachable child, a jewel picked from 
the mire, a brand plucked from the 
burning, was yet to illumine the dark 
paths of this world, with his holy, 
heavenlike teachings. Like a dove he 
was to go forth over the waters, and 
find the Olive Branch with which to 
garland his glad tidings to a world 
sunk in sin. Blessings, then, on all 
who hold their arms out towards 


THE LITTLE CHILD. 


137 


needy little children, making their 
homes arks of refuge. Beautiful stars 
shall they wear in their crown of re- 
joicing, for surely there is nothing 
brighter in all the world than the re- 
deemed soul of a little child.” 

12 * 


138 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


CHAPTER XV. 

iSraOil UtfWSt 

W HEN Uncle Ralph was quite 
through, little Anne was 
wide awake, listening with 
an interest far beyond her years. 

“ And the little boy got a nice home, 
just as I did,” she said, after a little 
pause. 

“ Yes, my dear little puss,” said 
Uncle Ralph, hugging her again, and 
kissing her. “ Someway my heart 
warms wonderfully to the child,” he 
added to Mary, “ and did from the first. 


GOOD NEWS. 


139 


But I see visitors coining, so I’ll be off 
again.” He had hardly set little Anne 
down and left the room, when Mrs. 
Longman was announced. Not the 
fluttering, lace-bedecked, poodle-lead- 
ing Mrs. Longman, but a personage of 
graver habit, quieter dress, and a 
sadder face. 

“ 0, my dear, I cannot tell you how 
thankful I am,” she said, as she seated 
herself, “ and I felt as if I must come 
here the first thing and tell you my 
gratitude.” 

“ What has happened, my dear Mrs. 
Longman ?” asked Mary. 

“ Something has not happened, 
which I very much dreaded,” said 


140 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


Mrs. Longman. “ My poor Grace is 
considered cured. It seems they had 
a German remedy, which had never 
been tried in this country, and they 
experimented with it upon her. The 
result is that she only had a few of 
the most distressing symptoms at first, 
and they are perfectly convinced that 
she is quite free from the terrible 
malady. She is to remain there a 
month yet, however, and then I shall 
take her back again.” 

“I am really very glad for you; 
we were all afraid of the worst,” said 
Mary. 

“And how sweet your dear little 
girl looks! 0, if I only thought I 


GOOD NEWS. 


141 


could do as I ought by such a child, I 
would take one. I see my duty in a 
different light, since Grace left me,” 
she added tearfully. “At all events 
I have discarded poodles. I have 
done with mere sentimentalising over 
pets, I trust. The horrible shock 
given me by poor Fanny will suffice 
my life time. I shall have to take 
lessons in goodness of you, Mrs. Dins- 
more, till Grace comes back.” 

“ 0, not of me, Mrs. Longman, there 
is a better guide to go to.” 

“ Yes, but you must remember I am 
a perfect novice in all matters of 
religion. I am ashamed to confess it, 
and yet such is the truth. I know, I 


142 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


feel I am going wrong, but I seem 
powerless to find a better way. May I 
come and talk with you about it, 
sometime ?” 

“ With pleasure,” Mary said. 

“ Thank you, and now I must be 
off. I felt as if 1 wanted you to hear 
the good news, and so came straight 
to you. And I feel now as if I had 
something to do in the world. I have 
absolutely been living for no purpose 
that I can see, but to enjoy myself, 
thinking nothing of the poor and 
neglected, or if I did, only to despise 
them. How I could pass them by so 
indifferently, when I know that God 
is the maker of us all, I cannot see. 


GOOD NEWS. 


143 


If now I can live to some purpose, I 
shall strive to find and to do my 
duty.” 

“ And my little Anne will be the 
first fruit of much good, I trust,” said 
Mary, the tears of thankfulness and 
gratitude welling up to her eyes, as 
she stooped down to kiss the child. 

The last day of Uncle Ralph’s stay 
had come. He had seen Anne in all 
her phases, and often declared that 
such another child could not be found. 
Not that she was free from faults; 
they were strewn as thickly as in the 
character and among the habits of 
most children, but she had been 
nurtured in sorrow, and the experience 


144 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


of her childish life had subdued her 
Mary was rarely fitted to bring out 
the best there was in her ; her govern- 
ing power was love, and the child 
appreciated her home, and looked 
back with shuddering upon the misery 
she had undergone. 

That evening Mary’s husband came 
home with a strange look on his face. 
“ At last,” he said, “ Uncle Ralph has 
found traces of his long lost son. In 
searching, he came across a poor 
family with whom had been left a box 
of old ietters, and these letters were 
written by young Ralph to his wife, 
before and after their marriage. * 
Uncle Ralph has been busy all the 


GOOD NEWS. 


145 


afternoon, and I believe he will be 
successful in learning all the history 
of his poor boy. 

At that moment Uncle Kalph came 
in. He looked very serious, and for 
some moments did not speak a word. 
Then he took little Anne up, who had 
run towards him, and seated her on 
his knee, looked tenderly in her face, 
and kissed her again and again. Mary 
could not tell why, but the simple 
action brought the tears into her eyes, 
it was done with such strange solem- 
nity. Then he looked up, the tears 
were also glittering on his lashes, and 
he said, in a low broken voice, “ My 
children, I ought to be very thankful 
13 


146 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


to our good God, very thankful. I 
have heard full tidings of my lost 
boy. 

“ When I left you, Leonard,” he 
continued, “I found the place that I 
was directed to, you remember. It 
was a poor home, but a cleanly and 
happy one. There, it seems, my poor 
Ralph was known, the good people 
used often to go and see him in his 
last illness. When he died, penitent, 
they think, only at the last revealing 
his true name, they did all they could 
to have him buried decently. The 
little child, for there was a little 
child,” and here he paused, “was 
taken by a woman who promised to 


GOOD NEWS. 


147 


do her best by her. This woman 
died, some little time afterwards, I am 
informed, and the child fell into the 
hands of a friend, who ill used and 
abused her. That child’s name was 
Anne,” here he kissed the little 
creature, while an exclamation arose 
from all present, “ and the cruel woman 
who had her in charge, was called 
Marm Hague. See how strangely 
God’s providence had led me, has led 
us all ; my poor boy’s only child has 
come back to me at last. You are 
my own little grand-daughter, pet, my 
own flesh and blood, my little child.” 

Wonder and delight pervaded the 
hearts of those who had been instru- 


148 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


mental in caring for this little 
stranger. 

“ It seems/’ continued Uncle Ralph, 
“that my poor boy was delirious 
through much of his sickness, and at 
the last, when his senses returned, he 
was not able to express himself, only 
by signs, or I am sure he would have 
sent his little child to me. Poor boy ! 
the way of the transgressor is hard, as 
he found out to his cost. I was willing 
always to aid him, but in his pride and 
wickedness he cast us off, his mother 
and me. Ah ! it was not for nothing 
that my heart went out towards this 
lamb. God be praised ! I can say with 
a full heart, God be praised !” 


GOOD NEWS. 


149 


Little Anne looked up at him won- 
deringly. 

“ Are you my grandpa ?” she asked. 

“ Yes, darling, did they never tell 
you about me.” 

“ Mamma did sometimes, and she 
cried. ,, 

“ Poor mamma, I wonder if she sees 
us now ?” 

“ I am very glad,” murmured Mary ; 
“ I suppose we shall lose her now.” 

“ No, I’m not going to take her from 
you, you know how to train her better 
than her foolish old grandparents, only 
I shall stipulate that you pass your 
summers with us. This dear child, 
I foresee, will be the apple of my eye > 
13 * 


150 


ORPHAN ANNE. 


train her for God, my dear, and then 
she will be a useful and happy woman.” 

So little Anne, through these won- 
derful providences, found the nearest 
and best friend that a child can have 
in this world. Of Mrs. Longman, I 
have to say that she became a thought- 
ful and kind-hearted woman, that she 
adopted not one, but in course of time 
five or six little homeless, motherless 
waifs, and found her reward in her own 
conscience, and in their love and well- 
doing. In my next story, I shall 
follow the fortunes of little Anne, and 
show how she became a good and noble 
woman. 


THE END. 








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